


it’s called a ‘quickie’

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Exhibitionism, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Quickies, simmons cant handle going without fucking grif for too long: the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 12:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12864543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: With visible hesitation at first, Gold and Maroon Team all head in the same direction, away from Grif and Simmons, leaving them alone. Finally, alone.“So, what was it you wanted to--?”Simmons promptly takes off his helmet, tossing it carelessly to the side. He’ll wash it later. Grif takes one look at whatever expression is on his face right now and audibly bites his tongue mid sentence.





	it’s called a ‘quickie’

On the one hand: being caught while having sex is basically Simmons’ worst nightmare. He is very, very easy to embarrass, says accidentally embarrassing things all the time, and gets himself landed in embarrassing situations as easily as breathing, but just the thought of being caught by someone while--while being _intimate_ with Grif makes him want to tear his hair out and scream.

On the other: they’ve been officially a couple for less than a week after over a decade of useless, self inflicted, agonizing pining and Simmons still experiences a dizzying thrill whenever Grif so much as gives him a peck on the cheek. And the last time they’d had sex had been when they’d woken up in bed together (after a very enjoyable night of having sex together) and that was _hours ago._

He could just wait until the patrol mission is over and they get back to the base. Delegate the report to Jensen, tell Gold and Maroon team that they’ve got a super important special secret Captains only meeting to get to and drag Grif into one of their rooms--the closest one--because they haven’t gotten around to filing the paperwork to get themselves one room for the both of them with the extra large bed that Grif’s been dreaming about for literal years (mostly because they haven’t even gone public with their relationship yet, which would add an extra fun mortifying twist to the Getting Caught possibility).

But. That won’t be for _hours._

God fucking damn it. He waited for over ten years for that dick, he can wait for less than ten hours. He’ll just tide himself over until then by thinking about just what he’ll do to Grif when he finally gets him alone in his room. He’ll _pounce_ on him the second the door is closed, surprising a laugh out of him, and then a moan, swiftly getting rid of any armor, any clothes between them, getting as close to him as possible and--

 _God fucking damn it._ This isn’t helping at all! If anything, it’s just making it worse. Simmons looks helplessly at Grif who’s walking right next to him, tantalizingly within reach. Not like he could just start touching him like he wants to-- they’re out in the open, their squads right at their backs and spread out around them.

He can’t. But he wants to. But he _can’t._ But he really, really, _really_ wants to.

No. He _needs_ to.

“What was that?” he asks loudly before he can second guess himself, because he knows by now that if he gives himself time to think he might as well just shoot himself in the foot.

Heads turn in his direction, and he starts sweating under the piercing attention.

“Huh?” Grif asks him because Simmons was stupid enough not to clue him in on the plan beforehand and oh great he’s on his own now, fantastic.

“I think I saw something.”

“Saw what?” Grif asks. He is _lucky_ Simmons somehow thinks he’s sexy.

 _“Something,”_ he grits out in a tone that says _no more fucking questions._ “Maroon Team, go and check it out!” He gestures in a random direction. “Go and check it _thoroughly_ out. Try and find the-- the--”

“Something,” Grif helpfully points out with what Simmons is pretty sure is an eyeroll, but he can’t say for sure because of that damned helmet.

“Find the something! Try and find the something for, oh,” he does some quick math in his head, something which he’s pretty good at, “at least ten minutes? Just really get deep in those woods, guys.”

Jensen raises her hand. “Um, what _was_ the something, sir? Like, any defining features…?”

“You’ll know it when you see it,” he says with entirely faked confidence. And then he tries to give Grif a Telling Look while wearing a helmet.

The fact that Grif actually gets it pleases Simmons immensely. “Uh, yeah, Orange Team, you guys head out with them. Just to be safe. Me and Simmons will keep down the fort here.”

“There’s no fort, sir,” Matthews says.

“Shut up, Matthews,” Grif says, which isn’t suspicious for him at all, actually.

With visible hesitation at first, Gold and Maroon Team all head in the same direction, away from Grif and Simmons, leaving them alone. Finally, alone.

“So, what was it you wanted to--?”

Simmons promptly takes off his helmet, tossing it carelessly to the side. He’ll wash it later. Grif takes one look at whatever expression is on his face right now and audibly bites his tongue mid sentence.

“Take your armor off,” he says, and Grif immediately scrambles for his helmet as Simmons gets rid of his gloves. The undersuit isn’t one entire unbroken piece of fabric; it’s got almost elbow length gloves separated from the rest of his suit, which is convenient because Simmons doesn’t think Grif would appreciate a kevlar textured handjob. Or maybe he should give him a blowjob? Or--

Grif is kissing him, and Simmons lets his thoughts quiet as he’s pressed up against a tree. He sighs through his nose as he sinks into the kiss, so relieved to finally be doing this with Grif again. He’d missed it.

His knees start to feel weak, so he draws a little bit away from the kiss so Grif will follow him, press up against him harder, almost supporting him. It works and he smiles into the kiss, leaves his mouth to trail kisses along his jawline.

It gives Grif the unanticipated advantage of being able to speak.

“So,” he says, sounding a bit like he’d just run a full lap but happy about it, “what brought this on, exactly?”

“You just look so damn good in armor,” Simmons says, because he suddenly realizes how embarrassing it is that he couldn’t handle not fucking Grif for almost a full work day. God, is he ever going to be a functional soldier again? Thank god the war’s already over.

“Uh huh,” Grif says, not even trying to sound convinced. “The armor I wear near twenty four seven, that armor, you just couldn’t resist--”

Simmons peels back the kevlar from his neck so he can bite down on it and suck. Grif’s breath hitches and his skeptical implications are cut off, hopefully to never return.

“Fuck,” he breathes, hot breath hitting Simmons’ ear in a way that makes him shiver a little. His arms go around Simmons but his hands don’t settle. He hears something hitting the dirt behind him. Armor pieces. Kevlar gloves.

He’s getting his hands ready. Simmons moans into Grif’s neck, thankfully muffled. That’s what he’s got to do not to get caught: just make sure that’s something’s always in his mouth to keep his noisy ass quiet. The thought is strangely appealing.

One of Grif’s hands settles on his hip, the other into his hair, and that’s nice, the bark hadn’t been that comfortable, or at least not as comfortable as being cradled in Grif’s hand is. Simmons grinds their pelvises together, but their clunky armor pieces afford precious little friction. His groan is frustrated rather than excited this time.

“Shit,” Grif swears, and he’s using such a good husky voice that it makes Simmons uselessly grind up against him again. “Really? Not just making out? You want to _come_ here?”

God, yes. If they stop here, it could very possibly kill him. Saying that out loud though-- he’s not sure he’d be able to get the words out. And what if he makes a _noise_ once he takes his mouth off Grif? Their teams can’t find out.

He licks and nuzzles his neck as answer, pants against the skin as he retreats away from him as far as he dares, as far as he can stand, mouth still grazing him. He’s so conscious of his lips right now. “Yes,” he whispers, and then kisses the spot he’s sucked (yet another) hickey mark into.

It’s Grif that makes a noise then, but it’s low so it’s probably fine. Deep from his chest. It makes Simmons _tingle._

“We’ll have to be fast,” he says, and then _hoists_ Simmons up the tree to settle him around his hips, Simmons instinctively wrapping his legs around him. Also instinctively: he moans, and sharply turns it into a breathless exhale halfway through. His legs tighten, his body tenses. What if someone had heard him? What if someone came to investigate?

It would be _humiliating._ It would be the worst case scenario. It--

It’s so important that Simmons remain quiet. He bites his lower lip, strangely, mortifyingly turned on by that fact. Grif looks up at him like he’s seeing something beautiful.

“Better get on with it then,” Simmons mumbles, helplessly trapped and pinned by that look, by Grif hands holding him up against the tree. “The armor--”

“You’re the one with free hands here, babe.” Grif grins as Simmons realizes what he’s just done: guaranteed himself a _show._

“You _fuck,”_ Simmons swears, indignant and flustered and still eager to do this god damn it.

“Come on,” Grif says, eyes going half lidded, his gaze nonetheless intent. So _smug._ “Time’s running out.”

Simmons makes an inarticulate frustrated noise and starts ripping as much of his armor that he can reach off. It falls heedlessly down to the ground, and in the end there’s only a few maroon pieces left on his legs. Enough for him to unseal his suit and peel it off his upper body, and then (he’s actually doing this holy fuck) down over his crotch enough to reveal his dick. He really can’t be efficient about it and look at whatever expression Grif’s making at the same time, so when he’s done and he looks over to him it’s like a jolt to his system to see that his eyes are fixed on his dick.

His breath hitches. He opens his mouth, and no sound comes out.

“Yeah,” Grif says, low and hungry, eyes incredibly dark. “Okay.”

And then he slides Simmons down back onto his feet only to slide down himself to his knees and he grabs Simmons in his hand. Simmons’ hand shoots to his mouth to muffle a whimper.

“This is good, right?” he asks, looking up at him from down there, face so close to his dick. That _asshole._ He knows it’s more than good. But he really can’t open his mouth right now, he _has_ to be quiet, so he just nods instead of swearing at him and the way he feels right now and fuck.

_Fuck._

Grif just took him into his mouth.

Simmons really should be the one with a dick in his mouth right now, he thinks, slipping a few fingers into his mouth just so he can bite down on them. Grif’s much better at staying quiet than him. Absolutely none of this was prepared or properly planned in advance. Simmons is never having sex without a strategy again.

Grif sinks down on him at a steady pace that destroys Simmons’ force of will, makes him bite harder down on his fingers to desperately try and muffle a groan.

“Grif,” he whispers, fingers slipping out to try and cover his mouth flat again, voice strangled, breathless, desperate. His other hand winds into Grif’s hair and Grif hums his appreciation, his acknowledgement. “Fuck. Be--” what? Careful? Quick? Quiet? It’s Simmons that should be all of those things right now. He doesn’t know--

Grif swallows around him and Simmons has to punch the tree he’s helplessly leaning against, is left to try and pant as silently as possible up into the sky because looking at Grif is seriously not a good idea right now. He looks so pretty with his dick in his mouth.

Grif’s hands on his hips tighten, he swallows again. Oh. Did he just say that out loud?

Simmons is really not doing too well at the ‘keeping quiet’ thing.

“... Captain?”

Simmons’ eyes, which had squeezed shut at some point, slam open like he’s in a horror movie. His head whips around in the direction of the cry. Sees no one.

“Captain, uh, can we come back now?” That’s Matthews’ voice.

Is it just Matthews? Is Simmons’ squad there? _Is Jensen there?_

Grif bobs on his dick, up and down and as Simmons desperately tamps down on another moan he realizes that Grif is _not going to pull off and answer._

He’s dating history’s greatest monster.

“Ah--” Simmons says. “Ye--no! Keep, keep--” what excuse had he used “--looking! Hahhhh, just, you need to, not done yet! You’re not done yet!!”

“Um,” Matthews says. Simmons’ heart is hammering, and not for the reason it had been only moments ago.

Grif gives his dick a long filthy lick before he dives back down on his dick.

Scratch that, his heart is hammering for multiple reasons and it's confusing the fuck out of his adrenal gland and libido. They seem to be responding by intensifying everything.

“Okay!” Matthews finally says, and Simmons slumps, practically falls against the tree with a sharp exhale. “Going-- going now! Yes sir!!!”

And the dutiful private proceeds to sprint through the trees. Simmons can hear his footsteps fade away. Finally, he’s gone.

“You evil shit,” Simmons hisses, and when he fists his hand back into Grif’s hair it’s decidedly tighter, definitely a little rougher. Grif groans, unrepentant, _enjoying_ it.

You know what?

Fine.

Simmons pulls Grif down on his dick and then back up, down, up, down, and Grif’s scratching at his thighs, nails running over the fabric, his breath puffing out of his nose, and it’s fine and great and amazing. Grif’s supposed to punch him in the leg or something if he isn’t into it, so he’s definitely into it.

Simmons fucks Grif’s mouth, his hips twitching into it, and he pants and gasps and whimpers but resolutely doesn’t moan, groan, or scream. Grif, muffled by his dick, doesn’t have to muster an ounce as much self control, the lucky bastard. (Being jealous of the blowjob _giver_ feels wrong, but he can’t help how he feels, never has.)

That singing tension consuming every part of him builds and builds and builds and he looks down and he meets Grif’s dark eyes, looking up at him so unimaginably tenderly as Simmons fucks his mouth and

He comes.

* * *

“Sooo,” Jensen says awkwardly. “You think they’re done yet?”

Captain Simmons had not been subtle when it came to staring at Captain Grif’s ass during, oh, _the entire mission._

“That’s what we sent Matthews for,” Bitters says, determinedly trying to not think about whether they _were_ done yet, and what it was exactly they were done with.

A rustle of leaves, and then Matthews comes stumbling into the clearing Gold and Maroon Team had settled down in about 200 meters away from where the… _action_ was taking place.

“Are they--?” Jensen asks, straightening up from where she’s sitting on a log.

“DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.” Matthews stomps off to sit in a corner of the clearing alone, to presumably absorb what he just witnessed in some form. Going through the five stages of grief, perhaps.

“... Ah.”

Bitters sighs a long suffering sigh. “Do they seriously not understand why it’s called a ‘quickie’?”


End file.
